Susan Carroll by Masquerade Page B

ill-tempered shrew I am," she said,
hugging him. "Forgive me, Gilly. But you know well how hard it is
for me to admit when I am in the wrong. It is doubly embarrassing
when I think what I wrote about Varnais for the Gazetteer."
    "There's no sense fretting about that, Fae.
Jessym already has that issue at the booksellers by now. All you
need do is write something else and stir up a fresh hornet's nest.
Whatever you've said about Varnais will be soon forgotten and-
bless me! I've nigh forgotten my main purpose in coming out here
tonight."
    Gilly fished a well worn leather purse from
his waistcoat pocket. "Hold out your hands," he commanded.
    Bewildered, Phaedra complied. He undid the
drawstrings of the purse and poured into her upturned palms a
handful of golden guineas.
    "Payment, my dear coz," he said gleefully,
"wrung out of your clutch-fisted publisher by my persuasive Irish
tongue. I told Jessym if he didn't come across with an advance, I'd
be like to break his pate."
    "Oh, Gilly, you darling." Phaedra balanced
the coins between her cupped palms. "I'm a woman of substance
again," she crowed. "Independently wealthy."
    Gilly chuckled. "I don't know as I'd go that
far. But I did get the old rogue to promise double for your next
piece."
    "Double. That's wonderful. I-"
    She broke off at a sharp click, signaling the
door handle to the anteroom was being turned. One of the heavy oak
portals pushed open.
    "Lady Grantham?" Armande's cool voice slashed
through the sudden silence like a saber's blade.
    "Well! Speak of the devil!" Gilly mumbled in
Phaedra's ear, but she barely heeded her cousin. She stared at the
tall, elegant figure, whose broad shoulders blocked the door. The
man moved with the stealth of a stalking leopard.
    "Your pardon, milady," Armande said. "I had
not meant to startle you, but I thought I heard your voice in
here."
    Heard her voice and how much more? Phaedra
wondered, her heart thudding from the shock of his sudden
appearance.
    "I had some business to attend. Private
business." She tried to present the picture of haughty composure,
but her hands trembled as she hastened to slip the coins back into
the purse. Faith, she could not have appeared more guilty than if
she were the infamous Guy Fawkes caught stacking a powder keg under
parliament.
    Gilly, on the other hand, had contrived a
smile of the most charming innocence. The rogue probably could have
done so even if he stood holding a lighted fuse in his hand,
Phaedra thought with some envy.
    In her nervous haste, she dropped one of the
guineas. It rolled to a halt by Armande's silver-buckled shoe. He
bent and retrieved the coin in one graceful motion.
    "I am sorry if I am intruding," he said.
Armande took her hand. He pressed the gold coin into her palm,
cupping her fingers about it. His ice-blue eyes delved into hers,
seeming to promise that what secrets he had not heard, he would
prize from her by force of will. Then his gaze traveled to Gilly.
One of the marquis's dark eyebrows arched questioningly.
    Phaedra had no choice but to perform the
introduction. "My lord, this is my cousin, Patrick Gilhooley
Fitzhurst."
    "A pleasure it is, my lord." Unabashed by
Armande's appraising stare, her cousin seized the marquis's hand
and wrung it in a hearty shake. Devilish lights danced in Gilly's
eyes as he added, "I've heard a great deal about you."
    "I'll wager you have, Mr. Fitzhurst," Armande
said.
    "My cousin helps me. With my investments,
from time to time," Phaedra said and then she silently cursed
herself. She owed Armande no explanations. "Unfortunately, Gilly
was just on the point of leaving."
    "You are not staying for supper, Mr.
Fitzhurst?"
    "Nay, my lord." Gilly swung his cape about
his shoulders. "I fear most of Mr. Weylin's guests are the sort to
take Mr. Swift's Modest Proposal to heart. Not only do they
think all Irish children should be devoured-they wouldn't hesitate
to serve me up, tough and stringy as I am."
    To Phaedra's surprise, the marquis